


and i promise that one day i'll feel fine

by the_chaotic_lesbian



Series: requests [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Insomnia, Late Night Conversations, Love Confessions, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_lesbian/pseuds/the_chaotic_lesbian
Summary: someone's been carrying linhardt to bed after he falls asleep in the library. linhardt is determined to figure out who, and maybe sort out his feelings on the way.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault & Linhardt von Hevring, Ferdinand von Aegir/Linhardt von Hevring
Series: requests [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898806
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	and i promise that one day i'll feel fine

**Author's Note:**

> for chilly! although this was REALLY just for me, I've wanted an excuse to write fluffy ferdihardt for AGES. enjoy! 
> 
> title is from coffee by beabadoobee

The first time it happens, Linhardt almost thinks it’s a dream. 

He had been digging through old Faerghan strategy books in the library, per the Emperor’s request. This whole war thing still isn’t his favorite, but Edelgard’s done her best to make sure he doesn’t have to spend as much time on the battlefield, and he supposes he’s grateful for it. 

He doesn’t remember dozing off, though in hindsight, he’s not exactly surprised. Late nights spent locked away in the library, coupled with days full of meetings and more research and checking on patients in the infirmary to make sure they were healing correctly, have left Linhardt beyond exhausted. 

In his hazy, sleeping state, he vaguely remembers a ‘tssk’, and arms wrapped around his frame, and the brush of lips against his forehead. 

When he wakes up in his bed instead of in the library where he’s sure he fell asleep, he wonders if he had been sleepwalking. He’s done that before. Caspar’s told him of all the times he’s found Linhardt wandering the halls fast asleep. He brushes it off without a second thought.

The second time it happens, he knows he’s not sleepwalking. 

For one, he’s not fully asleep. No, he’s caught in that floating state, where the slightest thing could wake him up. He prefers the floating state most of the time, because there are no dreams in the floating state, no nightmares that would have Caspar finding him scrubbing his hands red and raw in the monastery’s washbasin, half-awake and sobbing. 

No, he’s not fully asleep. 

And as such, the feeling of hands gently picking him up - his head falls against a broad shoulder, arms wrap around his back and under his knees - stirs him into alertness. 

“Really, Linhardt, you must stop falling asleep in such horrible places. You are worrying us all.” 

Ferdinand? 

Linhardt flutters his eyes open, because for a moment, he’d been absolutely sure that it was  _ Caspar  _ who had found him face down on a library desk. But no, his ears aren’t deceiving him, because in the second his eyes are open, he spies the telltale flash of orange hair. 

Why has Ferdinand come to fetch him? It’s a strange, strange thing. 

But in the moment, Linhardt is far too tired to protest, or even tell Ferdinand that he’s awake. He just closes his eyes again, turns his head to press into Ferdinand’s chest. He hears a surprised hum, and then nothing. 

“I just don’t get it,” he complains later, to Caspar, who’s shovelling food down like he won’t get the chance to eat again.  _ He might not,  _ an evil little voice in Linhardt’s brain says. He ignores it. “Why would Ferdinand bring me back to my room?” 

“I dunno, maybe he just got tired of you being so tired?” Caspar says all of this through a mouth full of food, and Linhardt winces at the sound of it. 

“Caspar, please. Chew your food before you talk.” Linhardt sighs, settling into his seat with a loud groan. “That doesn’t really make sense anyways. If he’s really tired of me being tired, he and Edelgard and Hubert would stop expecting so much of me.” 

Caspar swallows loudly, his fork clattering to the table. “Well, maybe he… I dunno. Why’re you asking me ‘bout these kinds of things anyways, Lin? I don’t think I’m really the best in this kinda department.” 

“Well, who else am I going to ask?” Linhardt pauses, thinking about it. “Well, I suppose I could ask Dorothea. Her and Ferdinand do seem to get along better nowadays.” 

“Yeah, ask Thea.” Caspar eyes Linhardt’s still mostly unfinished plate, his eyes gleaming hungrily. “Say, Lin, are you gonna finish that?” 

“Go ahead.” Linhardt pushes his plate towards Caspar. He’s not hungry anyways. He’s never really hungry these days, to his dismay. Not even the lure of his favorite sweets will stir up his appetite. He’s convinced it’s nonexistent. 

Caspar grins appreciatively, and then he’s digging into the plate of stew just as hungrily as he was earlier. Linhardt’s not entirely convinced that Caspar hasn’t stolen away his appetite to keep as his own. 

“I’m going to talk to Dorothea,” Linhardt says, and he stands. This time of day, she’s probably in her room or upstairs in the infirmary. He’s far too tired to check both, but her room is only a couple doors down from his own, so he might as well swing by and maybe take a quick nap while he has the time. 

Thankfully, Dorothea is in her room. Linhardt catches her humming some song that’s vaguely familiar in a way that Linhardt can’t quite place as she brushes her hair. 

“Oh! Lin. What’s the occasion, hmm?” 

“Hello, Dorothea,” Linhardt closes the door behind him; he doesn’t want to be overheard. “Have you got a minute? I’d like to ask you some questions.” 

“I always have time for you,” she says, with a small little smile. It’s not the bright, fake one she plasters during meetings and on the battlefield. Dorothea and Linhardt have long since decided that they needn’t be fake with each other. 

“Wonderful,” he slides onto her bed, crossing his legs with a sigh, “it’s about Ferdinand. You two have become quite friendly recently, and I don’t know who else to talk to about this.” 

Dorothea continues brushing her hair, not looking at him at all. If Linhardt didn’t know her as well as he does, he’d assume that she’s ignoring him, or not paying attention. However, he does know her, and he knows that she’s giving him the utmost attention. 

“What has our Ferdie done this time?” She sounds far too amused; Linhardt rolls his eyes. 

“He’s been carrying me to bed,” Dorothea actually glances up at this, and her eyes are gleaming with humour. She really does think this is funny. Linhardt wants to throttle her. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have the energy for such a thing. “I’m serious. I remember hearing his voice last time it happened.” 

“Well, we have all been rather worried for you.” Dorothea stands, walking the short distance between her desk chair and the bed to sit next to him. Her hand reaches out, and Linhardt obediently sinks into her lap, sighing in relief as she works her magic fingers into his hair. 

“That’s what Caspar said too,” Linhardt shifts so that he’s laying across the bed, his feet kicked up on the wall, “quite frankly, Dorothea, I would hope you would have better advice for me than Caspar.” 

Dorothea snorts. “Be patient, Lin, I wasn’t done.” She combs through his hair with the slightest touch of faith magic, it feels pleasant against his scalp. “I… do suppose that Ferdinand has been more worried than others. You should see the  _ looks  _ he gives you when you doze off during meetings. Well, I suppose if you saw the looks, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?” 

“Ferdinand looks at me?” Linhardt blinks, confused. 

“Oh definitely. You haven’t noticed?” Dorothea laughs. “Figures. If it counts, you make the same looks at him when he’s not noticing too.” 

“What?” Now Linhardt is even  _ more  _ confused. “I do not.” 

“Oh come on, Lin, surely you know better than that.” Dorothea laughs again, but it dies as Linhardt’s confusion remains evident on his face. “Lin… surely you realize it, right?” 

Linhardt fidgets at the almost pity in her tone, but he’s far too comfortable to pull away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dorothea.” 

Dorothea mutters something under her breath. To Linhardt’s keen ear, it sounds like  _ why must I continue playing matchmaker to these idiots,  _ but he could be wrong. “Lin. My darling Linhardt, you oblivious fool.” 

“Are you going to continue mocking me, or will you just cut to the chase?” Linhardt is beginning to regret coming to Dorothea for help. Figures she would start interpreting his feelings for him again. 

“Okay, okay. Lin, you look at Ferdinand the same way Caspar looks at Ashe. If I were to interpret it… why, I’d almost say you’re in love and you don’t even know it.” Dorothea releases a dreamy sigh. “It’s incredibly romantic, and also painful to watch.” 

“I’m not…” Linhardt trails off. Is he in love? With  _ Ferdinand?  _ It sounds ridiculous to his own ears, and he can’t begin to imagine how others will see it. In any case, he simply hasn’t had the time to think about something as foolish as love during this horrible, bloody war. Not whenever each battle invites the inevitable reality that one of them may fall. 

(it’s what he dreams of. Some nights the blood on his own is the blood of his enemies, but most nights, he dreams of Caspar falling, alone on the front lines. Of Ashe, shot off of his wyvern. Of Dorothea, identified as the dancer and inspiration of them all and taken out. 

Of Ferdinand, daring, brave Ferdinand, swooping in to save squishy Linhardt and perishing because of it. 

He can’t pursue love. Not when it will inevitably hurt him.) 

“Lin, please. At least consider the thought.” Dorothea sighs again, and she pulls away, all but shoving him off of her lap. “Not all of us are lucky enough to have found someone willing to… what is Ferdie doing again? Carrying you to bed?” 

“I’ve considered it.” Linhardt snaps. “I just… I  _ can’t,  _ Dorothea. If… if something happens in this war… The dreams have been taxing enough. I don’t know what I’d do if they became reality.” 

“I didn’t take you for one to linger on the what-ifs.” Dorothea stands again, smoothing off her dress of any stray hairs. Linhardt is grateful she doesn’t comment on it; Caspar had once compared his horrible shedding to that of a cat, and he’d nearly blasted him with wind.

“This is war, Dorothea. If I don’t think about the what-ifs, I’d be dead.” Still, Linhardt can tell that Dorothea is just about done with this chat by the way she’s currently marching back to her desk, firm and resolute. 

“If you don’t do anything now and something were to happen on the battlefield, you’d regret it for the rest of your life, I believe.” Dorothea sits down at her desk once again, with a soft, resigned sigh. “Honestly, Lin. If you do have feelings for our dear Ferdie, you should just tell him as much.” 

_ It’s not that simple,  _ Linhardt wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Arguing with Dorothea really is a futile effort nowadays, now that they understand each other so well. Instead, he stands, brushing his own robes off before trekking with a sulking pout over to the door. 

He does concoct a plan of sorts, though. 

It’s a simple plan, one that doesn’t even require him going out of his way, which is the best kind of plan. In fact, the only thing he has to do is swipe a particular potion out of Hubert’s room - one that Hubert had developed  _ for  _ him, though not without grumbling and complaining that such a brew shouldn’t be needed - and head up to the library. 

To the public eye, this is no strange occurrence. Everybody left to wander this goddess-damned monastery knows that Linhardt practically lives in the library nowadays. It’s no wonder that Ferdinand found him so easily. 

And yet, thinking about how Ferdinand found him makes Linhardt wonder if Ferdinand was  _ looking  _ for him. What a strange thing to do. 

He downs the potion quickly, swallowing at the way it burns as it goes down his throat. It’s unpleasant, and that’s why he doesn’t take it more often, no matter how much Hubert and Edelgard both got onto him for sleeping in meetings. He doesn’t like the way the potion blurs his mind so that he couldn’t sleep even if he desperately wanted to. 

It’s unpleasant, and he finds his concentration wavering even as he pulls out a couple of tomes. To his understanding, the potion stimulates the brain, which is why it keeps him awake, but it doesn’t do anything to help the symptoms of fatigue. Nothing helps the symptoms of fatigue, really. 

But it doesn’t matter. He can’t risk falling asleep and ruining his simple plan, so potion it is. Even if it will keep him awake for far longer than he’d like. Even if the realization that he hasn’t had a peaceful night’s rest in months settles in far too late. 

Hours pass, and as his candle flickers to a stub, Linhardt folds his arms over the desk, closes his eyes, and waits. 

Without the potion, he surely would’ve dozed off, between the feel of hard wood against his arms and his head and the flickering light creating a cozy haze in the library. It’s the perfect place to nap, but the potion forces him to stay awake, and he must spend hours laying there, waiting.

In his awakened state, he hears the fresh thump of footsteps, the creak of the door being nudged open. He hears a small, familiar chuckle, and then a deep sigh. 

“Your candle is nearly all burnt out, Linhardt,” Ferdinand says in a quiet murmur, like he’s trying not to wake him. It’s a nice sentiment. “How long have you been here this time?” 

Linhardt doesn’t answer. He can’t risk giving himself away so soon. Not when he hasn’t figured out why Ferdinand is doing this. He has to know. The scholar in him demands to know. 

Strong arms gently pry him from the chair, scooping him into a warm embrace. Ferdinand carries him with such ease, and Linhardt cracks his eyes open for a mere moment to gaze up at the man holding him. 

Ferdinand takes special care to curl Linhardt into his arms, brushing his lips lightly against the top of Linhardt’s head. He closes his eyes at the touch, and something in his chest aches. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. 

“Come, my dear,” Ferdinand murmurs, and it sounds far too fond than anything Ferdinand has ever said to him. Linhardt curses the way it makes his heart flutter. Maybe Dorothea was right. Maybe he is in love. What a pain. 

“Really, Linhardt,” and now Ferdinand is moving. Linhardt presses his head into Ferdinand’s shoulder with a soft sigh, and Ferdinand laughs. It’s also fond, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. “I hate taking advantage of you like this, but if you will not take care of yourself, I will. I simply refuse to watch you wither away.” 

“Ferdie,” Linhardt mumbles, the name slipping from his lips faster than his mind can catch up, “that awfully sounds like you care about me.” 

“Linhardt!” Ferdinand nearly drops him, Linhardt can feel the way his hands clench and unclench. “You… you are awake?” 

“Mhm.” Linhardt blinks his eyes open now, yawning. The potion won’t lose its grip on him for at least a few more hours, but still the fatigue remains, growing steadily worse the longer he stays in such a warm hold. 

“Were you pretending to sleep, waiting for me?” 

“I was curious about why you were carrying me back to my room. I thought this would be easier than asking.” Linhardt shifts a little, and he can still feel movement; Ferdinand has not stopped walking. 

“You could have simply asked! I mean…” Ferdinand pauses, and he sounds all sheepish. “Had I known you were awake, I would have simply lifted you to your feet. In fact, if you would like me to put you down-” 

“Ferdinand von Aegir, if you drop me now, I will never forgive you.” 

The threat, funnily enough,  _ works,  _ and Ferdinand does not put him down. In fact, Ferdinand speeds  _ up,  _ walking faster. Linhardt has just enough faculties to realize that Ferdinand isn’t bringing him back to his bedroom; they would have surely hit the staircase by now. 

“...Fine,” Ferdinand mumbles, “do you mind if I bring you to my chambers instead? I can assure you, it will be just as peaceful as your own, and a far lesser distance.” 

“Where will you stay then?” Linhardt yawns again, and his vision blurs. Maybe the potion was a bad idea, but it’s not like he can do anything about it now. 

“Well, I suppose I could-”

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Linhardt closes his eyes. “You… you kissed my head earlier.” 

A pause.

“That I did. That was very forward of me, I hope you will forgive me.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive,”  _ nothing, except not doing it again in broad daylight,  _ “Ferdinand, do you care about me?” 

“But of course!” And Ferdinand is pushing open a door now; they must have reached his dorm room. Linhardt curls just a little bit tighter into Ferdinand’s embrace as Ferdinand swiftly brings him down down down, onto the bed. 

“Then stay.” 

And now Linhardt can see Ferdinand’s face clearly, can read the way Ferdinand falters above him, those amber eyes of his bright and fond and so so cautious. Ferdinand is always cautious, always tuned in to the needs of others over his own. It’s one of his more admirable qualities. Linhardt wonders what it’s like to be so stubbornly selfish. 

“Stay? With you? In here?” Ferdinand is backing off, shaking his head, his cheeks flushed. “Linhardt, you are exhausted, I could not… I will not take advantage of you like that!” 

Linhardt stares at him, and then huffs. “It’s not taking advantage if I’m the one asking for it. Besides, I took a potion to keep myself awake and it won’t wear off for a little while. I’d like the company.” 

“A potion to…” Ferdinand shakes his head again, but he acquiesces, walking back over to the bed. “I was not aware that such potions existed.” 

“Hubert made it specially for me.” Linhardt scoots over just enough so that Ferdinand can take a seat beside him. These dorm beds were not built for more than one person, though, and inevitably, when Ferdinand settles into the mattress, Linhardt curls on his side, leaning against his chest. It’s warm, and comfortable, and the little sound of surprise Ferdinand makes is pleasant. 

“Somehow, I am not surprised.” Ferdinand is stiff, uncomfortable underneath Linhardt’s chest. He wonders if this is what Ferdinand had planned, or if everything had gone awry. “Such a thing sounds… unpleasant for you. I am surprised Hubert has kept it a secret from the rest of us.” 

“It is unpleasant.” Linhardt yawns. “I can’t sleep even if I really want to. Wonderful for pulling all-nighters, or dedicating myself to healing during a battle, but the effects it has make me feel absolutely sick.” 

“And yet you took one tonight? You must have been desperate.” 

“Well, I wanted to,” another yawn. He’s tired. Painfully exhausted, “to talk to you.” 

Ferdinand is quiet for a moment, and then fingers card through Linhardt’s hair. They’re close enough in this position that Linhardt catches a whiff of southern fruit blend; of course Ferdinand would smell of his favorite tea. It’s almost as sleep-inducing as the angelica brew that he prefers. 

“So you knew it was me carrying you?” 

“I vaguely remembered… glimpsing orange, the other night.” Linhardt tugs at the blankets, pulling them up to wrap around his shoulders. Ferdinand’s hand adjusts properly, curling around his shoulders and stroking his hair. It’s pleasantly soothing. Why did Linhardt shy away from this? 

“Ah, I see.” Ferdinand is quiet again. It’s strange. He’s so full of life and energetic during tactic meetings, Linhardt is unused to seeing him in the stillness of night, drooping with sleep. He wasn’t sure that someone so noble and arrogant could  _ get  _ tired. He is wonderfully proven wrong. 

“And I spoke to Dorothea. She seems to think I am in love with you. Isn’t that strange?” The words slip out, unprompted, and Linhardt winces internally at how  _ horrible  _ his tone sounds in his ears. Blunt and straightforward, the way he talks to  _ everyone,  _ and yet it feels unnatural and wrong directed towards Ferdinand. 

And, sure enough, Ferdinand startles at the sound, hands stilling in Linhardt’s hair. “...I suppose that is strange.” There’s far too much loathing in the words. 

“You’re not supposed to  _ agree  _ with me,” he says, with a huff and a roll of his eyes that goes thoroughly unseen. 

“What would you like me to say?” Ferdinand shoots back, and it almost feels like he’s going to pull away completely. Linhardt tightens his hold on Ferdinand’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know. Something over the top and romantic like you normally do.” He reaches half-heartedly for Ferdinand’s free hand, and the man allows it. His hands are sweaty and warm in Linhardt’s own. “List off reasons why I should be in love with you, and then act all surprised when I tell you that those reasons don’t matter when I’ve already fallen.” 

“...Linhardt,” Ferdinand says, firmly, “you are not making much sense.” 

Linhardt tilts his head up. From his position curled against Ferdinand’s chest, it’s not an easy thing to do, and he has to reluctantly release Ferdinand’s hand to reach up, grabbing at his chin. Ferdinand is staring down at him, all fond and exasperated at the same time, and for a moment Linhardt wonders what he’s about to do. 

They’re in a war. He can’t afford to be so careless. He can’t give his affection to someone that might leave him. 

But… but if he doesn’t act on what he’s feeling… he’ll be lonely and jaded forever. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Ferdinand blinks, all slowly with his eyelashes fluttering, hardly visible in the darkness of the dorm room. “You… you want to…” 

“You can tell me no,” Linhardt props himself up on one elbow, begrudgingly. This is far too much effort, and once the night is over he’s going to curl up in Ferdinand’s bed and not move for at least another hundred years. “But you seem to think that you don’t deserve love, which is ridiculous.” 

“Linhardt, you just told me that you being in love with me is  _ strange.  _ What was that supposed to mean?” Ferdinand actually makes a little pouty face. It’s adorable. Linhardt is lucky that he has many years of experience in avoiding pouty faces. 

“It’s strange, because she knew before I did,” Linhardt rolls his eyes again, “but I keep thinking about it. It would certainly make sense. If you were anyone else, I would surely have made you bring me to my own room, and I would not have just asked for you to kiss me. So will you kiss me? I am not very good at taking no for an answer.” 

“You are  _ ridiculous, _ ” Ferdinand huffs, but he’s wrapping an arm around Linhardt’s neck, steadying him with a firm grasp, “but… yes, Linhardt. You may kiss me.” 

“Finally.” 

Linhardt hasn’t had much experience with kissing. He and Caspar had kissed once, when they were sixteen and young and dreaming about being in love. Caspar had been worried that his height would prevent him from kissing his crush, Linhardt had told him otherwise, and they had kissed to prove it. It didn’t mean anything. 

He and Hubert had kissed, at another time. It was awkward and sloppy and they were both sleep-deprived and desperate, and they had never spoken about it again. Linhardt doesn’t even want to  _ think  _ about it when he’s here, so close to Ferdinand that he can feel warm breath against his face, can smell that southern fruit blend so much stronger. 

He stares, swallows, and then leans in to press a chaste kiss to Ferdinand’s lips. 

It is, most certainly, better than his first two kisses. For one, he knows what he’s doing. For another, it’s with someone he truly cared about. He hardly thinks Ferdinand has more experience than himself, but that doesn’t matter when there’s a  _ passion  _ behind the kiss, soft and sweet and fond. 

And over far too soon. The potion is finally wearing off, and the exhaustion hits Linhardt like a stampede of horses. His arm shakes, and then gives out from under him, and he dramatically collapses onto Ferdinand’s chest again. 

“Maybe this can wait,” Ferdinand says, and he sounds as flustered as he had looked in the moment, red cheeks illuminated by the moonlight escaping through the window. “You must be exhausted.” 

“What, you’re not going to get on to me for it?” Linhardt yawns, and then allows his eyes to flutter close as Ferdinand wraps the blankets around them, arms curling around his waist and his back. 

“Heavens no. Perhaps in our youth, I would believe you were… well, lazy, but I hardly think so now. You do so much for us… I admire you a lot, Linhardt.” Lips press against the top of Linhardt’s head, soft and gentle. “Now get some rest. You deserve it.” 

In the morning, Linhardt will surely question himself for allowing himself to succumb to such pleasure. He does not believe he deserves such a thing. 

But in the moment, he couldn’t care less. 

_ Caspar and Dorothea were right,  _ he thinks numbly, as his consciousness drifts away.  _ Ferdinand just wants to take care of me.  _

_ But I don’t think I mind so much.  _


End file.
